


My Anxious Mind

by colberts



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-06
Updated: 2013-12-06
Packaged: 2018-01-03 20:41:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1072841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colberts/pseuds/colberts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They’re both Captain America levels of stupid. Brad’s resigned himself to that fact.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Anxious Mind

He pulls on his socks and eases himself off the bed without disturbing Ray, who’s on his stomach, obliviously snoring away. Ray’s flying out in the morning to go back home to his hick-infested town and Brad’s waiting to hear where they’ll ship him off to next.

He can’t believe he was stupid enough to start something they’ll never get to finish. It’s too late, and he figures Ray will probably never forgive him for it. They’re both Captain America levels of stupid. Brad’s resigned himself to that fact.

He eases out the door into the daybreak and hopes the morning PT can help him shut out everything he’s trying not to think about. It hasn’t worked for him before, but there’s hope yet.

\---

Brad knocks on Ray’s door. It’s white and the paint is peeling and he wonders if Ray’s mother will answer the door in her nightgown. He can hear someone moving through the house before the door swings open on creaking hinges. Ray stands before him, in the same run-down condition Brad left him in six weeks back. He’s too skinny, too unwashed, and his eyes stand out against the dark circles around them. His furrowed brow only makes it worse.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Ray crosses his arms over his chest and Brad’s eyes are drawn to the ink on his exposed arms. He takes too long to answer, so Ray kicks him in the shin with more force than he probably would have before... _everything_.

“I had some leave.” Like that’s adequate. Ray steps onto the porch, his barefeet against aged wood, and eyes Brad as he pulls the door shut behind him.

“You’re a piece of shit. There’s one motel in this fucking town, so you better mosey your giant ass down Main Street and book yourself a room. Or, you know, get the fuck out of dodge before I break your fucking nose.” He struggles to control himself, trying to erase all emotion from his face. Brad’s unmatched in that department, though, and he has the morbid urge to laugh as he watches Ray fail.

Ray’s face isn’t right without mischief or amusement or agitated cynicism.

Brad scratches the back of his neck as his brain scrambles for something to say. Ray’s coldness stops the words in their tracks.

“I’m on my way through,” he starts, but Ray barks out a laugh.

“Your way through buttfuck middle America. On your way where? You have no fucking business anywhere outside of your hippy-ass Cowabunga Dude state, so you can either try that again or you can get with the _getting the fuck out of here_.”

“I’m going to England.” It’s like watching a trainwreck as the words sink in. “They’re trading me off to the Royal Marines. I’ll probably be gone for awhile.”

There’s brief satisfaction in watching Ray crumble, in hurting because Brad was hurt first. It’s childish and it’s stupid and he only takes pleasure in it for a moment before he wants to claw his way out of his skin. Ray’s grip tightens until his nails leave little crescents on his bicep. Brad barely catches himself before he reaches out.

“Congrats. Shouldn’t you be packing?”

“Ray,” Brad starts but Ray takes a step toward him and plants his hands on Brad’s chest, grips his shirt and shoves him back with everything he’s got. Brad goes stumbling backward down the porch steps but catches himself before both knees end up in the dirt. Ray follows him and waits for him to stand before he grabs Brad’s shirt again.

Ray yanks him closer, fingers digging into fabric and flesh. He rests his forehead against Brad’s collar bone but doesn’t lessen his grip.

“You’re a piece of shit.”

“I know.”

Ray pulls back so their eyes meet and Brad tries to say everything he can’t in the only moment Ray allows him before they crash. It’s less kissing and more fighting.

They break away, gasping, and Ray gives him a long look before pushing him away.

“Get the fuck out.”

Brad does.

\---

A few days after they touch down on American soil, post Operation Iraqi Clusterfuck, Brad comes back from the beach to find his door unlocked, his coffee maker brewing, and Person on his couch flipping through channels on his tv.

“Missing me already?” Brad asks as he strips off his wetsuit and digs around for a clean towel. Ray looks over the back of the couch to make sure Brad can see him rolling his eyes.

“I let my place go before we left, the housing on base is for shit, and there’s a good chance you might feed me, so this seems like a pretty square deal.”

“Except for the part where you are inflicting yourself upon me and my home. Is no space sacred anymore?”

“I promise to put the seat down, honey,” Ray says in a high-pitched voice as he turns back to the tv. Brad grins in spite of himself and goes to take a shower.

It goes on like that for weeks.

Brad acts put upon and rolls his eyes and insults Ray’s parentage like usual, but he’s glad Ray’s there at 2 am when neither of them can sleep, or when Ray’s mowing the lawn because he knows Brad hates to, leaving Brad time to tinker with his bike. They’re both still shaky and a little off center - combat will do that to even the Iceman - but the routine they get into makes Brad happy. It sickens him how content he feels with Ray invading his life.

After a particularly annoying day with paperwork on base and an unsatisfying surf, Brad decides to tackle finally fixing the back door but is met with limited success. He’s cagey and frustrated that Ray isn’t around to provide amusing background noise.

Just when Brad’s about to climb on his bike, Ray returns from the direction of the beach. He’s got his hands in his pockets and he watches the ground with every step. Alarms go off in Brad’s head, so he meets him halfway.

“I’m leaving in two weeks,” is what Ray says as he brushes past Brad.

“You’re what?” Brad follows him into the house, his stomach in his throat.

“I’m flying home in two weeks.”

“You’re,” but Brad can’t say the rest. _Ray’s leaving the Corps. He’s signed his papers, he’s not deploying with them again, he won’t have Brad’s back and they won’t see each other every day anymore_.

“I’m done, dude. I can’t do this anymore,” Ray says. The look in his eyes says he’s pleading for Brad to understand. “I don’t want to spend another tour watching all that shit happen and being told to make it worse by command that can’t see past the asses their kissing for fucking medals. I think we’re fucking lucky we got out of that in one piece. LT signed his papers too, and since he’s the only one with any brains in this outfit, I decided to follow suit.”

They stand there in Brad’s kitchen and stare at each other. Brad doesn’t have much to say. He understands, especially after what they went through only weeks before. He’d like to see Ray out and happy. He’d like to see him without dark circles under his eyes and without some of the cynicism that’s always there. He wants Ray to put on some weight and go back to school and do whatever the fuck he wants instead of what command tells him. He wants Ray to take two steps forward and wrap their bodies together and he wants to lay him out and fuck him into his mattress.

“Two weeks?” Brad asks, stepping into Ray’s space. Something desperate crawls into his chest and he can’t really see anything other than Ray blinking up at him, looking wary. Looking hopeful.

“Yeah,” and Brad’s _there_. He grabs Ray’s shoulders and pulls him in and they finally crash together.

There’s teeth and tongue and not enough oxygen, but Brad gets them to his bedroom and pushes him down onto the bed before either of them can stop and reconsider.

“Two weeks and I’m gone, Brad. I’m not gonna be your second sob story,” Ray tells him as Brad undoes his pants. Brad watches and can see the hesitation, the question in his eyes. Brad’s spent months at Ray’s side and can’t remember the last time he thought of wanting anything more. He’s fucked.

“Shut up,” Brad says in lieu of a real response as he pushes Ray’s pants to his ankles.

Brad swallows Ray’s cock and watches the flush creep up his chest and neck and he wonders how many times he’ll let himself have it before he ruins it all and loses him for good.

\---

Brad spends most of his downtime ignoring the permanent knot in his stomach while pretending he’s all squared away. He figures if he pretends long enough, eventually it’ll be true.

“I fucking hate you sometimes,” is the greeting Brad gets when Ray finally answers the phone. Brad’s tried him a dozen times over the last year, but he’s never picked up before.

“Sometimes?”

“The rest of the time I loathe you. Less swearing with more quiet seething and voodoo dolls.”

“That explains the back issues.”

“That’s just old age,” and Brad hopes it’s fondness he hears under the bravado, “‘cause you’ll _know_ when I decide to use ‘em.”

“Ray,” Brad starts. He’s happy to listen to the hostilityor merely listen to him breathe as long as Ray stays on the line. He’s lost count of the emails he’s started to write, not that he could make himself say anything that mattered.

“Shut up,” Ray says quietly. “Just shut up. I don’t know why you even bother calling. I have nothing to say and neither do you.” He laughs but it’s bitter.

“Just checking in,” Brad tries.

“Done and done,” Ray says and disconnects.

\---

Brad watches the evening unravel with every drink Ray inhales. Half the platoon showed up at the bar to send Ray off even though he’d had his paddle party at Tony’s only days before. Most of them are shitfaced and Brad has to wonder how many will be stumbling their way back to housing as the sun comes up.

Ray’s an unfortunate drunk. His mood swings between babbling in a way that’s reminiscent of his Ripped Fuel days and being so unhappy that he viciously insults anyone close enough that doesn’t come bearing alcohol. It doesn’t take a genius to see he’s miserable, but the way their asshole brothers are pouring beer down Ray’s throat, Brad can’t help but think they must see it too.

He grabs Ray by the elbow, steadying him as he brushes past Brad to get to the bar. Brad shakes his head and leans in so he’ll be heard over the cacophony of several drunk Recon Marines.

“Maybe we should get you home,” Brad suggests, trying for reasonable. The situation is bound to devolve into issuing orders, but he’s feeling generous.

“Maybe we should get you laid, since you’ve got a giant stick up your ass!” Ray reaches around Lilley to swipe someone’s beer off the table. Brad snatches it out of his hand just before it reaches his mouth, and Ray scowls.

“Flying with a hangover is guaranteed to end in vomiting.”

“We’re _long_ past that point, homes, get with the program.” Ray cranes his neck, looking for the bartender to signal for another round. Brad sighs and tightens his grip on Ray’s arm.

“Gentlemen! The man of the hour is sufficiently trainwrecked. Your duty is done, and now mine begins.” They all cheer and raise their glasses in a toast. Ray tries to take a bow, but Brad’s still got an iron grip on his arm. “If he pukes in my car, you’re all footing the cleaning bill.”

They exit the bar to the sound of more cheering. Ray smiles and gets in the car with minimal struggling, which is much more than Brad had hoped for. When they pull up at the house, Brad goes around to help Ray out of the car. Ray pulls himself up using Brad’s shirt, popping off one of the buttons. Exasperated, Brad steers them away from the car and up the driveway.

Outside the front door, Brad fumbles with his keys in the dark. Ray crowds him against it, resting his cheek between Brad’s shoulder blades and wrapping his arms around Brad’s waist.

“Person, get the fuck off me, you drunken disaster,” Brad mutters as he tries a key in the door with no success.

“I liked most of those words,” Ray tells him, muffled by Brad’s shirt. “I liked the ‘get off’ and the ‘fuck’ part.”

Brad laughs as Ray’s hands make their way down the front of his pants and swallows the dread that’s been building up inside him all evening.

They’re sloppy and desperate. By the time they get to the bedroom, Ray has sucked a bruise onto Brad’s shoulder and they’re both mostly naked. Half the tube of lube ends up spread across Brad’s sheets and they barely make it to fucking because Ray won’t take his mouth off of Brad long enough for them to get going. When Brad’s finally inside him, he can’t stop. They bend together like it will bring them even closer.

Brad’s never been so angry with himself.

“You have to promise,” Ray pants, his neck arched back as his whole body curves into Brad’s thrusts. “Just promise you aren’t going anywhere.” There’s a desperate look in his eye that Brad can’t ignore.

“You’re the one going somewhere,” Brad manages.

“Brad.”

Brad’s never heard one syllable full of so much that he doesn’t want to hear. All he can do is hope Ray won’t remember it in the morning.

\---

It takes Brad buying Walt a shit ton of beer to get him to spill the beans. Walt watches him skeptically, twirling his bottle around in its sweat on the smooth bar top. He’s the one that keeps in touch with Ray regularly. Brad’s sure he knows more than either of them want to admit.

“You might not like what you find,” he says cryptically, writing Ray’s address on a napkin.

Brad’s sure of it.

\---

When he knocks on the door, it’s been over two years since he last saw Ray and Brad tries to ignore the likelihood that he’s about to lose his lunch on Ray’s front lawn.

A petite blond answers the door with a smile that makes Brad’s blood curdle.

“Hi! You here to see Josh?” It takes Brad several long seconds before he even begins to process what she said. He’s saved from answering by Ray’s appearance behind her. He doesn’t look surprised, which makes Brad want to drive back to Virginia and punch Walt in the nose, but Brad can’t really blame him.

He has to look away as Ray’s hand slips over her hip when he passes her.

The next several minutes are a blur of introductions and Ray’s favorite fake smile. Ray must send her inside, because she’s gone when Ray steers him to the porch steps and sits him down on the top one. Brad knew it was coming, but denial is a bitch.

“Nice to see you, Colbert. What brings you to these parts?” Ray’s still wearing his fake smile, the one Brad hoped he’d never see outside the desert.

“Back from England, had some leave.” His throat refuses to work properly.

“That’s nice.” They sit in silence until it’s even more uncomfortable, unbearable.

Brad’s legs have him walking away before he realizes what he’s doing.

“Fuck this,” slips out as he fumbles with his keys. His eyes burn and he can’t let his body to betray him like that.

“Par for the fucking course.” Ray says it like it’s a warning. He follows Brad and slams the door shut just as Brad gets it open. “What the fuck did you expect? That I’d be waiting around for you like some pathetic faggoty star-crossed lover? Think I’d ever give you another chance to sneak out again like it’s fucking _nothing_?” Ray spits every word, punctuated with fingers that dig into Brad’s forearm. Brad feels so detached that his ears buzz. He absently hopes that Ray’s girlfriend can’t see anything since the car is between them and the window.

“You didn’t,” but nothing follows. His mind is full of unbidden images of Ray with lips smeared in pink gloss and thinks he really will be sick.

“I _sure didn’t_!” And suddenly Ray’s yelling, screaming at him and Brad’s frozen in the onslaught. “You know this is all bullshit! You are such a _piece of shit_! There’s not much to say other than ‘ _fuck you_ ’ and ‘ _have a nice day_ ’!” He drags in a breath before continuing, grounding himself with a hand on the driver’s side mirror. “I _cannot believe_ the amount of time I wasted being so fucking pissed at you! So _fucked up_ over you!  I could’ve spent that time doing _literally any other thing on this fucked planet_ but it just kept happening to me, kept growing, kept me up all _fucking_ night _all the time_ while you skipped off to join Her Majesty’s Royal Lardasses! You played it cool, just like always! I don’t know why I was even surprised. You went ahead and made a bunch of dumbass executive decisions and I’m just the grunt at the bottom gets to watch the bullshit roll down. Typical chain of command, Staff Sergeant! It’s all your fault, you fucking coward!” He says the last with a shove, but Brad expected it and digs in so he stands his ground.

Brad feels it, finally. Feels it bubbling up and out and he’s _fucking pissed_.

“There’s nothing!” Brad shouts, gesturing between them. “What do you think? Gonna move in, sit around while I’m gone half the year and _pretend_ ,” he trails off, choked on it. “You’re the one who,” but Ray steamrolls over him.

“Then why the fuck are you here?” He pauses, processing Brad’s words. “ _I’m_ the one who what?” He lowers his voice. Brad hasn’t ever seen him look so dangerous. “ _I’m_ the one who snuck out in the middle of the night? The one who shows up unannounced or calls a bunch when there’s an _ocean_ between us?” His voice is so low that Brad struggles to hear every piercing word. “The one who tells me it’s all nothing but keeps fucking coming back? How many more times?” Ray spreads his arms out wide with his question. “How many more fucking times?”

“Would you fucking quiet -”

“How many more times should I retrain myself to remember that you’re a giant pussy? How many more times should I talk myself out of buying that fucking plane ticket? How many more times should I have to remind you that you aren’t entitled to me? That you aren’t allowed to waltz in and out like I’m frozen in place just waiting for you to decide what this is or grow a pair? HOW MANY MORE TIMES, _ICEMAN_?”

“NONE!” Brad roars. “Fucking none! Are you happy? You fucking win!”

“I sure as fuck do!” Ray grabs the handle and yanks the car door open with a flourish. “Ride your ass outta here just like you were gonna do anyway! Do us both a favor and fuck off for good this time!”

Brad takes off, spraying gravel across the driveway. He’s done.

\---

Brad’s life goes back to normal. He’s sent on training missions in rubber boats and has the crap beaten out of him by the ocean and command. He takes another tour of Iraq and thinks it’s still pretty fucked. He rides his bike in his downtime and accumulates another year’s worth of speeding tickets. He fucks anonymous women he picks up at seedy bars and he doesn’t feel anything at all.

\---

Brad’s elbow deep in his Explorer’s engine when a car pulls up. He’s not in the mood for the usual suspects, especially if whoever it is wants another shot at cheering him up. Six months of it has been plenty.

“Hey, fuckhead.” Ray saunters up to the open garage door. He pulls his sunglasses off and folds them in the vee of his t-shirt. Brad leans on his elbows, no longer trusting his knees. “Where’s my welcome smooch?”

Brad turns back to the engine and wills his lungs to fill. It’s a struggle.

Ray continues without waiting for a greeting. “Since you're a Grade-A asshole and also socially retarded, I’ve decided to take the higher ground and do all the talking for you. See, I’ve been through all those five stages and shit - you know the denial and anger psychobabble that Dr. Phil really likes? - and I’ve come to the conclusion that I don’t care what you want or what you think or what you fucking do anymore.”

Brad takes a deep breath. “You could’ve picked up a phone for that.”

“I’m not done.” He leans against the door frame and crosses his arms. “You and I touched dicks, and we were both retards about it after, but I’m in charge of this goat rodeo now and you can shut the fuck up.” Brad raises his eyebrows. The hope is threatening to drown him. “You owe me, Colbert. I spent three years pining after your colossally stupid ass and I did not handle that well. I tried bar fights and alcoholism and I think there was an acid trip in there somewhere. I even shacked up with a really hot chick and ended up jerking off in the shower thinking about sucking your cock.”

Brad has to close his eyes.

“The thing is,” Ray says as he approaches, “you are such a shit. You left and then you came back and you left and you came back and you left a-fucking- _gain_ , and I just sat around all pathetic about it waiting for the next round. But now,” he says, jabbing his finger into Brad’s chest, “we’re done with all that bullshit. We’re going to clear the air.”

“We are?”

“Yes. First,” he begins, prying a wrench out of Brad’s hand, “you’re a fucking moron. You love me and you deal with that really badly. We’re going to work on that.” He takes a breath and narrows his eyes at Brad like he’s searching for something. “Second, in case all of the fucking drama wasn’t enough of an indication for you - and I have to wonder, since you have a history of dropping the fucking ball - you should know that I’m unfortunately in love with you, too, you complete idiot. And it probably started with you singing shitty songs to me and tolerating Ripped Fuel-induced insanity even though we didn’t shower for a month.”

“I’m not sure that was Ripped Fuel-induced,” is what comes out next, but most of Brad’s focus is on attempting not to let the feeling of relief overwhelm him.

“Furthermore,” Ray continues, fingers digging into Brad’s hips, “I’m still royally pissed at you and it’s going to take a lot of groveling and blowjobs to make up for everything. Don’t let my shy demeanor fool you. If you ever leave me in bed and run out again, I will find you and gut you with your KA-BAR in your sleep, you cowardly fucking asshole.” Rays voice is low and fond despite his words.

All Brad can do is kiss him.

He grips Ray’s neck and pulls him in until it feels like they’re breathing for each other. The way Ray rolls his tongue in Brad’s mouth makes Brad consider the garage floor as a viable option for what’s about to happen. Brad starts to lead them down to their knees, but Ray makes a sound of protest.

“Not _my_ knees, asshole. You have a house with plenty of other flat surfaces to choose from.”

They stumble their way through Brad’s kitchen and make it as far as the living room before Ray pulls them to the ground. There’s a rug, which apparently passes for suitable.

Brad’s never been so desperate to get out of his clothes. They get in each other’s way trying push and pull articles of clothing off. They’re both tired of having anything between them. Brad mouths the trail of hair just below Ray’s navel as he struggles with his belt and Ray tugs at Brad’s shirt while he does it, accomplishing little other than frustration mixed with pleasure.

Finally, finally they manage to strip each other of everything and Ray climbs over Brad, straddling him and pinning his arms to the floor.

“This is how it’s going to be, Colbert,” Ray says with his eyes narrowed.

“Sexually frustrating?”

“Yes, if you want to keep playing the smartass card,” Ray says with a twist of his hips. He grinds their cocks together, trapping them between their bellies. Brad thinks it’s ridiculous that Ray expects him to pay attention to words when he keeps doing that.

“How is it going to be?”

“It’s gonna be simple. We’re gonna fuck and fight and insult each other and there isn’t gonna be any more emotional constipation.” Ray leans down to kiss Brad before continuing. “We are not gonna be flowery, romantic queers throwing around the L word like it’s no big deal. It’s a big fucking deal, and we get it now, _don’t we, Bradley_?”

“You’re insane,” Brad says fondly, bucking his hips to try and regain the friction Ray had taken away in order to talk.

“And you’re the reason my life has turned into one of those fucking Lifetime movies, but here we are.”

Brad looks at him seriously and tries to say something, anything.

He ends up butchering it.

“You know, right? You know I,” he swallows, “you know I do.”

Ray looks away for a moment before turning serious eyes on Brad. “That’s why I’m here.” He pauses as a grin spreads across his face. “I wouldn’t have put up with all your bullshit if I didn’t know that.”

And just like that, the talking is done.

**Author's Note:**

> For Jay's birthday, I attempted Brad/Ray. Hopefully it's not a total disaster. Giant thanks to G for reading it and helping lots.


End file.
